


can you really call this a prison sentence, I didn’t receive an orange jumpsuit

by valety



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fluff, Humour, Other, POV Second Person, Post-Pacifist Route
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 02:53:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8269927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valety/pseuds/valety
Summary: Chara puts Asriel in gay baby jail.





	

**Author's Note:**

> we make too many jokes about sending asriel to jail on twitter (@lumabops cough I'll accept your follow request I promise cough) and I thought it’d be funny to write something about that but it turned out kind of,, different
> 
> warnings for brief references to ptsd, doot doot dooo

“Chara, can I at least—”

“No.” Squirt, squirt.

“Ah!” Asriel flinches as a stream of water hits him square between the eyes. “You didn’t even let me finish!”

“Anything that starts with _can I at least_ deserves a squirting,” you say, setting down the spray bottle. It’s slim, green, and you’re pretty sure it’s meant for gardening, not disciplining goats. Then again, he used to be a flower, so maybe everything works out. “Odds are it’ll either be about wanting to leave or wanting a bigger box, which I don’t _have,_ as I’ve already _explained_ to you, _multiple times.”_

“Yes you do!” Asriel protests, looking indignant. “You have a huge one in your bedroom that you’re not even using! It’s just sitting in your closet! I don’t even know where you _got_ it!”

“I _am_ using it,” you say before squirting him once more. Asriel squeals, throwing up his hands protectively, but it’s too late. He splutters as the water hits him.

You’re lying, but you know perfectly well that nobody will argue with you, not while you have a spray bottle in your hands.

 _This is one of your stranger ideas,_ Frisk signs while Asriel’s still wiping off his face. You grin. It absolutely _is_ one of your stranger ideas, and that means it’s also one of your best. _All_ of your best ideas are weird, like the time you suggested Frisk roll around in the snow and dirt to try and make themselves smell like a puppy. And it had worked, hadn’t it?

Besides, it’s not like Asriel seems to mind. Sure, he’s sulking about the spray bottle, but he’s still playing along, obediently sitting in the cardboard box that you’d acquired, when really, everybody knows that he could stand up and walk out anytime he wanted to. You can only assume he doesn’t want to.

As though reading your mind, Frisk gives a slight wave to draw his attention, signing _do you like being in jail?_

 _“No!”_ Asriel shouts. “This whole thing is _dumb!”_

“It’s not dumb,” you say patiently, crossing your arms to match your neatly-crossed legs. “It’s perfectly logical. If you’re going to waste all of our time by feeling guilty over things we’ve already forgiven you for, then we might as well play along. So, now you’re in jail and being punished. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“This is _silly!”_

 _“You’re_ being silly,” you retort. This time, your voice has a slight edge to it. “But you don’t seem to get that, no matter what I do, so you can sit in jail all day and let your silliness sink in.”

Scowling, Asriel peers over the side of the box to where you’d scribbled something in red marker. “But why does it say ‘gay baby jail’ on the side?”

“Because you’re a gay baby,” you answer, still with an air of exaggerated patience. “And this is your jail.”

“‘M not a baby,” Asriel mumbles. He hasn’t stopped pouting, but he settles back down regardless, wrapping his arms around his legs and resting his chin upon his knees. “Turn the volume up, please.”

You do so.

Personally, you don’t think the accommodations of Gay Baby Jail are particularly unpleasant. It’s located in the living room, with the TV in full view and the Wii U gamepad well within Asriel’s reach. Although you squirt him with the spray bottle every time he starts to mutter something dark under his breath, you also let him choose the channel, and you even kneel beside him to play with his ears unasked at one point. He gets a glazed look in his eyes when you do so, and you think, maybe _that’s_ why he hasn’t tried to make a break for it yet.

Love is weird, you decide. It made that one royal guard get all sweaty over the other one, it made Undyne slam dunk Dr. Alphys in the garbage, and _now_ it’s making Asriel sit in a cardboard box labelled ‘gay baby jail’ while you pet him. Frisk is lucky to not be like this.

Approximately two seconds after you think this, Frisk slides off the couch and shuffles over to where you and Asriel are sitting. They sidle up against you, gentling butting their head against your shoulder, until finally you sigh and lift your hand to their head as well.

“This is unfair,” you complain as you gently stroke both Asriel’s fur and Frisk’s dark, smooth hair. “I’m the only one who isn’t getting pet.”

On cue, both Asriel and Frisk raise their hands to your own shaggy head and begin to stroke.

When Toriel strolls into the living room later, apron tied around her waist, she doesn’t seem at all surprised to find the three of you like that. She only says, “It is lunchtime, children.”

“Asriel can’t leave jail,” you inform her, shrugging away from their hands. Asriel gives a whine of disappointment, and although Frisk remains silent, their expression suggests that they’re internally echoing the sentiment. “I can’t stop watching him or he’ll escape. Can we eat in here today?”

“Jail?” Toriel repeats, cocking her head slightly. “Why is Asriel in jail?”

“Crimes against humanity,” you answer promptly. “He’s too cute.”

“Oh, dear,” Toriel says. She presses her hand against her mouth, covering a smile. “Well, I suppose that cannot be helped, then. I shall bring out a tablecloth so that you do not spill on the rug.”

The tablecloth she brings out is an adorable one covered in a tidy red-and-white check print. That, plus the sunlight streaming through the window and the birdsong coming from the yard almost makes it feel as though the three of you are having a summertime picnic. There’s only one member of your party who still looks like a storm cloud.

“You said it like a joke,” Asriel comments darkly over a bowl of macaroni and cheese with broccoli. “I really _did_ commit crimes against humanity.”

“You know what’s a _real_ crime against humanity?” you say. “Pairing something as vile as broccoli with something as delicious as mac and cheese.”

“You keep trying to make it out like I’m the— _ah!”_ Asriel flinches as another stream of water hits him in the face.

“No back-sass,” you say firmly, shaking the bottle once for good measure.

“You didn’t even give me a chance to _say_ anything!” Asriel protests, wiping off his cheek. He’s glaring, but the effect is lessened somewhat by the slight twitch of his nose. Like a bunny, you think dreamily. It really _is_ unfair that he should have somehow received all of the cutest traits of all the cutest animals in the world while still managing to have such an awful personality.

“I could feel it in my bones,” you say, setting the bottle down. “You were building up to something sassy.”

Asriel’s mouth twists as though he has _several_ things to say about that, but he keeps still, finishing his lunch in silence. You’re almost disappointed.

When the three of you have finished eating, it’s you who collects the dishes and takes them back to the kitchen. You decide to be a nice person and bring back some kind of treat for Asriel and Frisk, but while you’re chopping fruit, you hear Asriel say, “A _file?_ Wouldn’t that be hard to eat?”

You snort. You may not be able to hear Frisk’s half of the conversation, but you think that you can guess what it entailed.

You return to the living room bearing a plate of fruit, sliced just a little bit too thin due to your excitement over using a knife. “Dessert,” you announce, setting it down on the coffee table before once again kneeling primly beside Asriel. You turn to Frisk, asking, “Did he attempt to escape?”

Frisk shakes their head.

“Did he attempt to coerce you into helping him with a _future_ escape attempt? Using emotional blackmail, perhaps? And did you maybe possibly facetiously offer to bake him a cake with a file in it in response?”

Frisk taps their chin as they consider. Asriel groans, loudly and dramatically. You shake your head with a sigh. “Honestly, Asriel,” you cluck, leaning over to push the plate of fruit just out of his reach. “I can’t believe you’d attempt to solicit Frisk’s assistance. You know perfectly well there’s only one way you’re getting out of jail.”

Frisk watches from the sofa with an amused light in their eyes as they crunch on a fistful of apple slices. You almost feel like a performer, as though the whole game has been but a skit for their amusement. Maybe _that’s_ why you’re being more theatrical than necessary.

“I _don’t_ know, actually,” Asriel says. “All I know is that you told me to sit in this box.”

“And you just did it?” you can’t help but ask. “Without even questioning why?”

He shrugs. “I assumed you had a good reason.”

“Well, I do, and it should be an obvious one,” you reply, jamming your finger in Asriel’s face. He jumps back so quickly that you half expect the box to tip over. _“Rehabilitation._ By which I mean, you have to stop being a stupid buttface about everything. Understand? Stop moping and whining about how nobody should like you and how you don’t deserve things. It’s _annoying.”_

“But it’s true,” Asriel mumbles, lowering his gaze. “I’m the worst.”

“If you’re going to be so hard on yourself, at least be hard on yourself for a good reason,” you say, sliding the plate back towards him. When he doesn’t respond, you pick up an orange slice and press it into his hand. “Hating yourself for what happened is a terrible reason. _Everyone_ did shitty things. I'm pretty sure we don't know a single person who didn’t try to kill Frisk at least once. Right?”

You glance at them for confirmation. They nod.

“See?” you say triumphantly. “No big deal. If you want to feel bad, then feel bad about...hm.” You tap your chin. “Any suggestions, Frisk?”

 _Play along,_ you try and tell them with your eyes. Something silly. Something teasing.

 _Hyperdeath,_ Frisk signs, and you feel your face light up.

“Yeah, Hyperdeath!” you say, turning back to Asriel. “I can’t believe you actually turned into that old OC of yours! Talk about _corny.”_

“Hey, the God of Hyperdeath is _cool,”_ Asriel protests, swallowing a mouthful of orange. Good, he’s eating. “He’s the strongest in the universe! Nobody can beat him!”

Frisk grins.

“Except Frisk,” Asriel concedes, shooting a glare their way. “But that was only because...well.”

“He was defeated by the power of _love,”_ you coo, pressing your hands  against your cheeks. “Doesn’t sound like the strongest in the universe to me. Sounds like a shounen anime villain.”

“I don’t know what a shoe-nin is,” Asriel replies with a slight frown.

“Don’t worry about it,” you say, reaching out and patting his knee. “But that’s what you _can_ feel bad about. You had all the power in the Underground, and you turned into a guy who goes _urahaha_ and says _isn’t that delicious?_ Come on _,_ Az.”

“I didn’t say that!” Asriel cries, flushing.

 _You did,_ Frisk confirms serenely. _It was embarrassing._

“You said a _lot_ of embarrassing stuff,” you agree. “Like stuff about souls wriggling. I should know, I was there. I won’t list them all now, because then _I’ll_ get embarrassed, but _that_ can be why you’re in jail. Because you’re a menace to society.”

Asriel looks almost thoughtful, as though a part of him rather likes the idea of being considered a menace to society despite how down-in-the-dumps he’d been about feeling like a bad person earlier. _What a dork,_ you think with a smile, and as you’re leaning over to pick up the now-empty plate of fruit, you pause to quickly kiss his cheek. You do so so quickly that you doubt Frisk even notices, but Asriel buries his face in his knees and makes a long, high-pitched whining sound all the same.

Toriel is mixing something at the counter when you place the plate in the sink. When she sees you, she says, “Oh, Chara?” in a tone that means _you don’t really have a choice in what I’m about to ask._ Sure enough, when you return to the living room, it’s to say, “Toriel says I need to go outside and get some sunshine. That means it’s time for the prisoner to get some exercise.”

“Really?” Asriel asks, sitting up straight “I can leave?”

“Yes, but we’ll be holding hands the entire time,” you say. “I can’t risk you escaping, and I don’t have handcuffs or a ball and chain or anything like that.”

“I don’t mind,” Asriel says as you extend your hand towards him. He takes it and you pull him upright, helping him out of the box. “I like holding hands with you.”

You feel a blush colouring your cheeks. A frown tugging at the corners of your mouth, you say, _“This_ is why you’re a menace.”

“Huh?”

Ignoring him, you turn to where Frisk is bundled up in a nest of blankets on the couch. “Want to come?” you ask. “We’ll just be going around the block.”

They shake their head drowsily. And so, dragging Asriel behind you, the two of you leave the house.

You make it as far as the end of the yard before your positions shift. Although you’d been leading Asriel before, you quickly fall into step beside him instead, fingers weaving together when you’d previously been gripping his wrist.

It’s hard to maintain any sense of bravado upon leaving the house. There are too many strangers, too much open space. But you don’t hide behind Asriel the way you used to; that’s not your relationship anymore, one of you cowering behind the other while the other bears the brunt of all they cannot take. You stand together now. At least, you try to.

If only Asriel wasn’t too stupid to see that.

“See,” you say. The playfulness that had dominated it before is gone. “You do good things. You help me, like now.”

Asriel doesn’t answer, keeping his red eyes fixed on the pavement and saying nothing. But even that’s good, in it’s own way. Before, he might’ve tried to argue with you.

But of course you can’t leave it at that. Like a cat gradually nudging a china dish off the table, you need to push and push and push, and so you say, “Will you admit it?”

“Admit what?”

“Admit you’re not an awful person,” you say, lightly swinging your clasped hands. “You need to be rehabilitated, remember? That means you have to stop punishing yourself, or else you’ll have to stay in jail.”

“Mm…I don’t think I want to stay in jail,” Asriel answers, sounding thoughtful. “But it’s just a box, isn’t it? I can leave it anytime I want to, right? Even though you have that idiotic spray bottle.”

“Very good!” you say, beaming. If you had any gold stars, you’d give him twelve.

Asriel sighs and shakes his head. “You’re so weird,” he mutters, kicking lightly at the sidewalk. “You never _say_ things. Instead you use weird hints and games to try and trick people into doing what you want.”

“Did it work?” you ask brightly. “Do you feel at all inclined to stop punishing yourself? I can spray you with more water, if necessary.”

He doesn’t answer right away, leaving you with only the sound of your footsteps on the pavement and the crunching of dry leaves beneath your boots. But finally he says, “It’s not as easy as just deciding to stop one day.”

“I know,” you say, giving his hand a slight squeeze. You likely know that better than anybody else, and judging from the look on Asriel’s face, he realizes that. “But I don’t really care about you stopping with the self-hate entirely. I just want you to stop expecting _me_ to feel that way. You act like I shouldn’t like you sometimes, and it’s frustrating.”

“You shouldn’t,” he begins, but you cut him off.

“Either both of us get help because we’re both screwed up, or neither of us do because we suck,” you say. “Everything that happened to you, everything you _did,_ only happened because I made you help me first. If you’re going to blame yourself, then you have to admit that it was my fault too. And if you won’t admit that, then you can’t expect me to hate you. It’s unfair.”

You keep your voice calm, collected. Even so, anger gradually begins to coil in your chest with every word. A part of you wants to grab him by the shoulders, shake him and scream, _admit it, admit_ _that it was my fault, not yours, admit that everything you blame yourself for should really be aimed at me._

But you don’t. Blaming yourself in his place won’t accomplish anything either.

Instead you say, “You’re not the only bad person in the world. I’m here too.”

Asriel’s expression shifts a little, then.

You think: this is kindness for you. You’re not good at being gentle in the normal way, not like Toriel and Frisk are. You’re too prone to baring your teeth, and everything you try and do and say becomes embarrassing and clumsy as a result. But you can do this, at least. You can try and convince him that he’s not the only problem child in the world. You can be one less person who blames him, just like he’s one less person who blames you, and maybe that can be enough for now.

“It’s unfair of _you_ to be so reasonable,” Asriel says at last. “You make it sound so logical, even though it doesn’t feel right at all.”

“It doesn’t feel right because it’s not what you’re used to,” you say, echoing something Toriel had told you once before, back when you were very small and crying over something silly. You can't even remember what it was anymore. “We’ll get used to it eventually.”

You don’t mean to say _we._ But it slips out almost naturally, and you think that you can see him almost smiling because of it, and so you decide to not take it back.

As you’re once again crossing the lawn and making your way to the front door, you begin to tug your hand out of Asriel’s. However, he holds fast.

“You can’t let go,” he says. “I might try and escape.”

“I can’t be seen fraternizing with the prisoners,” you retort, but you don’t try particularly hard to get loose.

“Does holding hands really count as fraternizing?” Asriel asks, making his eyes large and dumb and innocent, the faker. “Isn’t it just standard procedure?”

“It’s the very _definition_ of fraternizing _._ You have to let me drag you in kicking and screaming to save face.”

“I don’t want to,” Asriel says, and he reaches out and grabs the knob, opening the door before you have a chance to. You attempt to push past him, but Asriel’s too big for that, meaning that it somehow turns into the two of you giggling and bumping your shoulders up against each other, hands still firmly laced together, all of which you suppose technically counts as _fraternizing_ as well.  

You open your mouth to say something to that effect, but before you can get out so much as a single word, something cold and wet strikes you in the face.

You jump back, recoiling. Asriel does the same, making a sound dangerously close to a yowl.

When you look up, you see Frisk standing before the two of you, a blanket draped around their shoulders like a cape, expression solemn. They’re holding out your slim green spray bottle. Once you see it, it takes you approximately two and a half seconds to work out what they’re doing.

 _“Traitor!”_ you explode, and then you’re spluttering and damp once more.

“Frisk?” Asriel ventures. He’s let go of you and is now holding up his hands in a pacifying gesture. “Um. Maybe you should put that down?”

Frisk shakes their head. Out loud, they say, “The two of you have spent the entire day flirting in the weirdest way I’ve ever seen. It’s kinda sweet, but—” Squirt, squirt. You shriek and cover your face. “You’re already at it again, even though you’ve only been home for five seconds. It woke me up.”

“Blame Asriel,” you say immediately, ignoring his _hey!_ of protest. _“He’s_ the gay baby, remember?”

This time, Frisk squirts you directly in the face. You jump backwards, practically hissing.

“Don't think I didn’t see you kiss him on the cheek,” Frisk says. “You’re _both_ gay babies.”

The punchline probably shouldn’t have come as a surprise to you after that. But in the end, Asriel ends up back in his box, this time with you joining him, half on his lap and half off.

“Frisk is sleepy. They’ll nod off soon,” you say, eyes fixed on where they’re curled up on the couch, spray bottle still in hand. “Then we can kill them.”

But Asriel only tightens his arms around your waist, lightly nuzzling your hair. “It’s fine,” he says happily. “This is good. I didn’t really mind jail in the first place, to be honest, and with you here, it’s even better.”

“God, you really _are_ a menace,” you mutter. But you lean into him a little more all the same, and then, it’s almost comfortable—just you and Asriel, curled up together the way you’ve always been meant to be—until a drowsy Frisk jolts upright and squirts you once again.


End file.
